


the love-light in thine eyes

by prionsa



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Marijuana, Other, Past Drug Use, Recreational Drug Use, Smooching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 19:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20569967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prionsa/pseuds/prionsa
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale get high and smooch."Crowley is lounging across the couch in Aziraphale’s flat, one leg hooked over the back and the other propped up so his socked foot brushes Aziraphale's thigh. Watching as Aziraphale grinds up some flower and rolls the neatest blunts he's ever seen: two for tonight and one more for luck."





	the love-light in thine eyes

Crowley is lounging across the couch in Aziraphale’s flat, one leg hooked over the back and the other propped up so his socked foot brushes Aziraphale's thigh. Watching as Aziraphale grinds up some flower and rolls the neatest blunts he's ever seen: two for tonight and one more for luck.

Aziraphale licks them shut and Crowley doesn’t watch. Aziraphale’s jacket is off and his sleeves are rolled up past his elbows; Crowley’s been watching Aziraphale’s hands, the angel’s gestures when he talks and his steady, almost thoughtless rolling, but watching his mouth feels like a step too far. Plenty of time for that sort of thing when they’ve both partaken in the stuff. Aziraphale’s fingers are slightly sticky with plant residue and Crowley smiles when the angel expends a frivolous miracle and waves it away. Better that than something like wanting to wash Aziraphale’s hands for him. 

(He would like to bathe together, if he thought Aziraphale would let him. Would return the favor. Aziraphale had once washed Crowley’s hands after he had choked through dust in the first desert and found his way to the angel’s campfire—as he always would, it seems. Aziraphale had washed all of him, had untangled his long hair with angelic patience. With non-angelic patience, perhaps. With indulgence, tsk-ing softly at the knots and combing out the sand. His hands were gentle when he sat Crowley down and dipped a cloth in a warm bowl of water and rubbed that cloth over Crowley’s arms and shoulders. He cradled each hand and picked the grains of sand out of his nails and used warm water to clean the creases of his palms. Like Crowley was something that needed tending to. Crowley had said nothing that night and had said nothing of it since. Sometimes, he wants to ask Aziraphale why.)

Aziraphale raises one of the joints to his lips and asks, voice pitched low, “spare a light?”

\---

It had been the 1980s, because it had to be, and Aziraphale found (or rather refound) himself a taste for some high-quality Mary Jane, as the kids say. Crowley had been amused the first time it came up, having tried the ‘devil's lettuce’ a few centuries prior and not thought about it a lot since. But Aziraphale had always found pleasure in indulgence.

Over the years, humans had gotten good at indulgence. Their food and drink, their sex and drugs and rock ‘n’ roll. Crowley watched as Aziraphale watched--and tasted. Tasted khat in Ethiopia, blue lotus flowers in Egypt. Crowley had seen Aziraphale use hookah, sweet lips wrapped around the mouthpiece and drawing in impressive lungfuls of tobacco smoke (well, it would have been impressive if they actually breathed, Crowley supposed). He had watched Aziraphale drop acid, though only once. In the 18th century, Crowley and Aziraphale had laid across from one another with opium cigarettes and talked of art. He knew of, or had personally experienced, Aziraphale’s forays into molly, poppers, and mushrooms, both psychedelic and mundane. He had witnessed the angel consume the finest consumables that the world, and more thoroughly the microcosm of London, had to offer, and been glad for the pleasure it had caused.

This is to say that Crowley was well aware Aziraphale had not drawn the line at alcohol when it came to intoxicants. If the angel wanted to try a few tokes of a joint, that was fine. It was probably a lot more pleasant than the cocaine he himself had tried after reading Sherlock Holmes, if Crowley were to pick an indulgence. Or at least easier on the nose.

It had come up again recently, after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn't. Aziraphale had extended an invitation over dinner that Crowley might "dig" a "nice fat one" after they'd returned to the bookshop. And after Crowley had finished astral-projecting over Aziraphale's ability to misuse slang in a way that still sounded vaguely dirty, he had agreed.

\---

And so here he is, splayed across the couch with one finger alight, holding his hand to Aziraphale’s face while the angel lights the blunt off the flame. Aziraphale’s eyes close as he sucks in a lungful of smoke, holding and then releasing a soft sigh, letting the smoke spill from his mouth. Crowley shakes the spark from his hand and sits up to take the joint Aziraphale offers, the obligatory brush of their fingers giving Crowley an obligatory hitch in his breath. He takes a hit and sucks up the smoke, watches the embered end flare and, beyond it, watches Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter. When Crowley breathes out, the smoke lingers around them, soft grey in the dim lamplight.

Aziraphale takes the joint back and lays his head back against the couch, head lolling over to peer at Crowley fondly. His eyes are still on Crowley when he takes another hit and lets the smoke slip from his lips. Crowley watches.

“‘S good,” Crowley murmurs, just for something to do.

“Only the best for you,” says Aziraphale, unbearably sincere. Crowley tries to avoid feeling something and fails with aplomb. He stares at his hands and smiles, just a little. 

“Oh,” he says.

Aziraphale leans over and takes Crowley’s hand. Crowley laces their fingers together and squeezes.

Just for something to do.

They’re an hour into this high when Aziraphale lights up their second blunt with a silver lighter he had customized in the early ‘30s. Crowley has closed his eyes to stop the light from fuzzing. Aziraphale is rubbing circles with his thumb along the back of Crowley’s hand, and is murmuring the words to Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself” from a book open on his lap. Every so often, Aziraphale will lean over and press a very soft kiss to their joined hands, or Crowley’s hairline, or just below his ear. 

Crowley has never felt so overwhelmingly tender. He thinks he might die from it. From _ feeling _.

He says this out loud, while Aziraphale pauses at a stanza break. Well, actually, what he says is, “I think I’m dying,” but surely the cause is obvious.

Aziraphale tsks, which Crowley feels is a little rude. “Really, we’ve only just finished our first blunt, and you know I would never give you bad cannabis, my dear.”

Crowley pauses to think for a moment before conceding that, even if Aziraphale were to give him bad weed, he surely wouldn’t partake of the stuff himself. The angel’s body is a temple, apparently, and more than that, he has an exceptional palate.

“But that’s not what I _ meant _, angel.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looks up from his book, brow furrowed. He uses the hand not clasping Crowley’s to sweetly brush the hair from Crowley’s forehead. “What is it, dearest?”

Crowley gestures helplessly with his free hand. “That!”

Aziraphale only frowns in response, sliding a silk bookmark to mark his current page and setting the book aside.

Crowley sighs, adjusting so he’s sitting upright and, more importantly, he can better see the angel’s face. His brain threatens dizziness for a moment before it valiantly holds still and resettles on Aziraphale. “You, being...” He purses his lips. “All touchy ‘nd hand-holdy ‘nd all.” He gestures towards Aziraphale’s hand in his own. “Sweet.”

Aziraphale, also rather high, blinks. “What’s wrong with it?” 

Aziraphale pouts. Crowley dies an early death.

"Nothing'sss _ wrong _ with it," Crowley hastens to clarify, before Aziraphale can move away from him. He squeezes Aziraphale's hand again and blinks to focus very seriously on the angel in front of him. "It's just very. Nice." he says, eventually. He swallows. Surrenders. “Don’t know if I’m used to it yet.”

Aziraphale nods slowly. "But... this is okay?" He glances down at their joined hands.

"Yeah." Crowley sighs, unable to look away from Aziraphale's earnest face.

Aziraphale, carefully, raises their hands and presses a kiss to Crowley's knuckles. He meets Crowley’s eyes. "And this?" he breathes.

Crowley swallows around his dry tongue and nods. "Y...yeah."

It feels like time has stood still. Part of that is the strain Aziraphale used and part of that is the way Aziraphale’s lips are feather-light on Crowley’s fingers. After a very long time, Aziraphale pulls back and licks his lips. “I _ want _you to feel nice around me.”

Crowley pulls a face. Huffs a little.

“I do!” Aziraphale continues sincerely, shifting in his seat to hold both Crowley’s hands in his own. “You’re, you know. The most important thing. You know,” he says again, and Crowley doesn’t, actually, but he’s been getting an idea from all the kisses.

“I know,” he murmurs anyway. “But I’m not _ nice _. I’m occasionally decent, or, well, coincidentally decent. Not the same thing.” And they both know that’s a lie.

“And how about this?” Aziraphale kisses his wrist. “Is this decent?”

Crowley very carefully doesn’t swallow his tongue. That bastard. He smiles.

“_ No _.”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley on the mouth so slowly, so sweetly, it feels like they’re made of molasses. Or like they’re swimming through molasses towards each other. (Or like they’re blazed and forgot how many limbs they’re supposed to have.)

It’s slow, is the point. Achingly slow. Their lips brush, part, press, and Crowley’s fingers tingle when they catch on Aziraphale’s shirt sleeve.

Crowley slips his tongue over Aziraphale’s closed lips, tastes sweat. Aziraphale opens his mouth and Crowley’s tongue slips in, brushes against Aziraphale’s teeth and tastes weed and smoke and whatever toothpaste he pretends to use when he miracles himself clean. He tastes warm and bitter. He tastes. Aziraphale is in Crowley’s arms and Crowley is _ tasting _him. 

He’s about to lose his mind over the intimacy of Aziraphale’s weed breath when Aziraphale pulls back and starts peppering kisses over Crowley’s face. 

He can’t help himself, he starts laughing as Aziraphale’s lips dot his cheeks with kisses. His neck flushes pink and his hands are helpless, clinging to Aziraphale’s white shirt. He starts laughing, which sets Aziraphale off laughing, head tucked into Crowley’s shoulder where the neckline of his shirt hits his collarbone.

“You’re the worst,” Aziraphale mumbles into Crowley’s shirt after a moment. He’s still laughing, and Crowley’s still laughing, little giggles that rev back up whenever one of them moves. 

Aziraphale is half on top of Crowley. Crowley’s on his back, stretched across the couch, and he has Aziraphale in his lap, a few wiggles away from straddling his waist. He flushes at the thought and kisses Aziraphale’s forehead.

Aziraphale’s breath is warm on Crowley’s neck as he laughs, and his hair is brushing Crowley’s face. Crowley curls a hand against Aziraphale’s cheek, readjusts Aziraphale’s head until they’re eye-to-eye, and kisses him again. They’re still smiling, and in between each kiss Crowley leaves on Aziraphale’s sweet mouth, soft laughs spill from them both. Nothing frantic exists here, between them. 

Aziraphale shifts in the middle of a kiss and suddenly his thighs are on either side of Crowley’s hips, stronger than expected as he settles himself against Crowley. Like he could do this for hours. Like his body belongs here, sweet and lusty and dazed in Crowley’s arms for all time.

Crowley rests his hands on Aziraphale’s thighs. Slides them up the sides of his trousers and cups the curve of his ass just to see Aziraphale jump. The angel’s face gets pinker, but he doesn’t move, just kisses Crowley again softly, cradles his face in his hands and lazily brushes his tongue over Crowley’s bottom lip. Crowley, being himself, gropes. Aziraphale squeaks against his mouth and kisses him deeper, their mouths opening in tandem.

When they break for air, Aziraphale rests his forehead against Crowley’s and beams at him.

“Hello,” he murmurs.

Crowley presses another tiny kiss to Aziraphale’s lips. “Hey.”

“Is this okay?”

“Oh, angel. Yes.” Crowley kisses Aziraphale’s cheeks, “yes,” and then his eyelids when his eyes close, “yes,” and then his lips again. “Yes,” he says again, just because he can. “More than.”

Aziraphale flushes down to his neck. Their mouths meet again, and Aziraphale’s hands slide up to tangle in Crowley’s hair. He kisses him hotly, wetly, getting more comfortable the more they soak in the moment. As mild and languid as Crowley feels, laid out beneath Aziraphale and certainly well-kissed, he can still feel six thousand years of tension leaving his body with each heady whimper and push of Aziraphale’s body against his own.

In a movement that feels sudden but probably isn’t, Aziraphale sits up in Crowley’s lap. His hair is mussed and his face is pink, and Crowley feels an irrational sense of pride knowing that he did that.

“What is it, angel?”

Aziraphale looks at him, looks at the dwindling joint they’ve left to burn out and spread around the room like incense. Looks at him.

“I just remembered,” he starts slowly, almost shyly, and fuck if Crowley isn’t embarassingly gone over it. “I have a bed.”

Crowley doesn’t bother hiding his amusement. “Do you?”

“Yes. And, well. I was just thinking--”

“Then I’m certainly not doing my job right,” Crowley fake-grumbles, pulling Aziraphale back against his chest and pressing a searing kiss to his jaw.

Aziraphale lets out a high-pitched sound of surprise and leans into the touch. “Oh, my dear, just… I… well…”

“You were thinking?” Crowley prompts breathily, scraping his teeth over Aziraphale’s pulse-point.

“I was thinking, maybe that would, uhm, be more comfortable…to, perhaps…relocate…” he trails off as Crowley’s fingers start teasing the skin just beneath the hem of his shirt.

Crowley nods. Kisses him again. “Yeah.” His nose bumps against Aziraphale’s jaw, and he leaves a few kisses beneath his chin. “Sounds good.”

Neither of them move, other than Crowley’s teasing fingers along the small of Aziraphale’s back, and Aziraphale’s answering fingers in Crowley’s hair.

“Eventually,” Aziraphale adds dreamily, flushed even redder than before. “We might find our way there.”

Crowley smiles against his neck. “Sure,” he says softly. 

“There’s no rush.”

**Author's Note:**

> Decided that the way that Aziraphale’s flat is built, they’ve essentially hotboxed themselves in his living room while that second joint burns out, so no promises on how long it might take them to get off that couch. But, then, they don’t have to hurry. Not anymore. <3  
As always, kudos and comments are appreciated and loved, & if you want to yell about gomens with me, I'm on tumblr @tuirseach
> 
> Title is from IX of A Woman's Sonnets by Lady Augusta Gregory, bc that's what I've been reading for class.


End file.
